They poured out of Haymarket Metro,

streamed up the hill through

the university towards the Start.

How they cheered Sir Mo Farah

warming up, in ominous, oppressive

heat. Mo the spirit

of the London Olympics over

a decade ago, when we celebrated

our country, the Queen descended

with James Bond from a helicopter,

the last time we felt good about ourselves.

The starting bell was rung by the Toon’s

Saudi-backed manager. It was Mo’s

final competitive race. He finished fourth.

Afterwards he said he didn’t know

what he would do next.  

 

But after his sunshine run and the Red Arrows

the sky darkened, thunder and lightening  

and rain. O, what rain. It flooded

South Shields Metro, chucking it down

on those brave stragglers still competing

and all those that had finished

and just wanted to go home. They queued

for the Shields ferry for hours, unprepared,

still in their running gear with only foil blankets

for protection, the weather unrelenting,

like a tempest at sea. They had tested

themselves, raised money for good causes.

Whatever has happened to this country

since 2012, however broken

we have become, none of those

sixty-thousand deserved this.